"Who lives here? Who could possibly—"
The thought was a cannonball of sarcasm fired into the abyss, but it never found its target. The universe snipped the thread.
Spin. Stop.
"—oh."
He was inside. The transition was so jarring, so absolute, that for a moment he simply ceased to think. One moment he was a speck rocketing toward a chasm of infinite doom; the next, he was hovering in the center of a room so vast it could have housed a small cathedral, with plenty of room left over for a parking lot.
"THIS IS... JESUS CHRIST, THIS IS SOMEONE'S BEDROOM?"
The bed alone was an act of god-like hubris. It was the size of a suburban bungalow, carved from a single, seamless piece of black marble shot through with veins of glittering gold. The craftsmanship was so insane, so perfect, it looked less like something made by hands and more like a geological phenomenon that had simply decided to be fabulous.
posts, carved into the likeness of weeping, frowering trees, held up curtains of silk that shimmered with a light they didn't seem to receive, a fabric that looked softer than a cloud and probably more expensive than a small country.
The air was thick with the scent of pomegranates and something else… something darker, sweeter, more intoxicating. It was a perfume that burrowed deep into his essence, a scent that made his very soul-form pulse with sensations a soul souldn't have the equipment for.
It was like being mainlined pure, uncut velvet.
"WHERE AM I? WHAT IS THIS PLACE? AND AM I... AM I FEELING... WEIRD?"
And then he saw her.
Every manic, incredulous thought. Every ounce of sacastic disbelief. Every trace of the terror that had been his constant companion—it all vanished. It was not erased; it was obliterated, leaving behind a silence so profound it was its own kind of scream.
His soul-form went absolutely, utterly still.
"OH MY GOD."
There, in the center of that monument to decadent sleep, lay the most beautiful, terrible, and perfect sight Pete had ever witnessed in his life, his death, or any state of being in between.
Persephone.
"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"
She was enormous—not a grotesque giantess, but a human woman scaled to divine proportion, a masterpiece of creation that had been magnified to shocking grandeur. Twelve feet tall, at least, her body was a symphony of curves and impossible perfection that made all mortal beauty feel like a rough, clumsy sketch.
And she wore nothing. Not a single jewel, not a scrap of silk. She was a landscape, and she was unblemished.
"HOLY... FUCK..."
Pete couldn't look away. He had no eyes, no lids to blink, no way to break the gaze that held him captive. His awareness, his entire soul, was locked onto her. Every perfect, divine inch.
Her skin glowed with a soft, internal luminescence, the gentle radiance of moonlight on a field of untouched snow. It was a light that didn't just shine; it warmed. He could feel its phantom heat, a promise of a softness so profound it could mend a fractured soul, so perfect it had to be a lie.
"SHE'S... SHE'S..."
Her hair, a cascade of dark, rich earth, spilled across the pillows and over the edge of the bed in a torrent of midnight silk. It was a living thing, a tide of shadow that pooled around her, framing her face and body in endless, whispering waves.
It held the scent of pomegranates and night-blooming flowers, a perfume so potent it felt like a physical presence.
And her face—
"BEAUTIFUL," PETE WHISPERED, THE WORD A PRAYER. "SHE'S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN."
Even in the repose of sleep, it was a masterpiece of heartbreaking geometry. High cheekbones that could have been forged from obsidian, yet looked soft enough to kiss.
Full, lush lips, slightly parted, issuing a breath that smelled of that same intoxicating sweetness. Delicate features that somehow managed the paradox of conveying both terrifying innocence and absolute, unquestionable authority.
She looked like she could grant you your every wish or unmake you with a single, careless thought.
But her body—
Oh gods, her body.
Pete's eyeless soul traversed the geography of her, a starving man presented with a feast that could not be consumed, only worshipped.
Her breasts—two perfect, swelling enormous moons of divine flesh, rising and falling with the slow, tidal rhythm of her breath. They were a generosity of form, a bounty that defied gravity, their rosy peaks erect tightening slightly in the cool air of the chamber. Pete had consumed a lifetime of mortal imagery, but this was different.
This was not the body of a woman; it was the idea of a woman, the platonic ideal made real, and it was devastating.
"I SHOULDN'T BE LOOKING.
"I SHOULDN'T—BUT I CAN'T STOP. GOD, I CAN'T STOP."
The dramatic curve of her waist flowed like liquid smoke into hips that could launch a thousand wars and a million ships. They were wide, powerful, a perfect cradle of life and death, tapering to that impossibly small waist, creating an hourglass that defied the very laws of physics and spoke of a power older than time.
Her stomach was not the flat plane of an athlete, but soft, subtly rounded, a gentle swell that was the very signature of femininity, a place of sacred vulnerability.
Her legs—
"JESUS CHRIST, THOSE LEGS..."
They were drawn up slightly, one knee bent, a pose of casual intimacy that was more erotic than any deliberate posture. Long, impossibly long, and shaped by a grace that no mortal sculptor could ever capture. Smooth, powerful thighs that promised strength, melting into calves of such perfect symmetry they seemed carved from ivory.
Even her feet were perfect—the arches high, the toes delicate, the nails polished like tiny, dark shells.
And between her thighs—
"DON'T LOOK. DON'T YOU DARE—"
But he did. How could any part of him refuse? She was completely unveiled, a goddess in her private sanctum, every part of her form on display.
There, nestled in the shadowed core of her, was a mystery deeper than any chasm. It wasn't just darkness; it was a presence. A sacred shadow, the nexus of her power, the fount of all the terrifying beauty in the room, the silent promise of an ecstasy that would break the soul of any mortal who dared to claim it.
"OH GOD, I'M GOING TO HELL FOR THIS. WAIT, I'M ALREADY IN HELL!"
The thought was a desperate, looped recording in his mind, a flimsy shield against the sheer, soul-shattering magnitude of what he was witnessing. If a soul could get a hard-on, Pete's would have been able to cut diamond.
As it was, he felt a… stirring. A resonant, shameful thrumming in his translucent form.
An echo of mortal desire that had stubbornly refused to die with his body. His soul-form pulsed, ached, throbbed with a want so profound it was its own unique kind of torment.
"THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS SO, SO WRONG. DEAR LORD, THIS IS THE MOST WRONG THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED. BUT SHE'S... SHE'S PERFECT. SHE'S ABSOLUTELY, STUPIDLY, UNFORGIVABLY PERFECT."
He couldn't stop. His awareness, like a moth to a divine flame, traced her form again and again.
From the tips of her perfect, pedestal-worthy toes, up those endless, sculpted legs, over the swell of her hips that could end empires, the dip of her waist that made his own non-existent guts clench, the full, pale mounds of her breasts, the elegant column of her throat, to her sleeping, deceptively peaceful face framed by all that night-dark hair.
"I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING—ANYTHING—TO TOUCH HER. TO JUST ONCE—"
Who wouldn't?
That's when her eyes opened.
Green eyes.